Chapter 27
Selina
I stood at the cabin window, watching snow curtain the distant peaks.
My broken arm felt heavy in its cast, tucked awkwardly against my chest. The view could have been a postcard: pristine slopes, evergreens bowed under fresh powder, a quiet village tucked into the valley.
It was nothing like the sterile hospital room I’d woken in yesterday. Nothing like the nightmare of Dresner.
“Switzerland,” I murmured, breath fogging the glass. “Of all places.”
I tested my mobility, taking careful steps across the creaking floorboards. Each movement sent a dull ache through bruised muscles. Long shadows stretched across the wood from pale winter light. The fire kept a steady crackle in the stone hearth, the only sound besides my measured steps.
The escape from Geneva blurred at the edges. Wolfe drove mountain roads through the night, avoiding highways until we reached this village tucked deep between ridgelines. I remember images only: headlights, snow, his profile hard in the dash glow. The rest drowned in exhaustion and pain meds.
I stepped away from the window and winced when my ribs complained.
The place was small but solid—thick beams, a stone hearth with fading embers, a single room tied to a compact kitchenette, a bathroom, and one large bed dominating the space. Thin daylight silvered the frost on the panes.
A folded note sat on the rough-hewn table. I picked it up with my good hand.
Gone for supplies. Stay inside. Back soon.
“Could you be any more cryptic?” I muttered, setting it down. “How about, ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t abandoned you in the middle of nowhere, Selina.’ Or, ‘Please don’t panic while I’m gone.’ Better yet, wake me before you vanish into the mountains.”
I eased onto the edge of the bed. How long had I been asleep? The last clear memory was crossing the border just before dawn, Wolfe’s hand steady on the wheel, his profile cut sharp by instrument light.
The cast was bulky and awkward, the itch beneath it already maddening. Three to six weeks, if memory served. Three to six weeks of being a burden.
The door swung open on a blast of cold air. I flinched and nearly toppled as Wolfe entered with grocery bags, snow dusting his dark hair. His gaze found me, cautious shifting to concerned when he caught me struggling.
“Don’t get up,” he said, crossing the room in three quick strides. He set the bags down and steadied my shoulders with firm, careful hands. “You shouldn’t be moving around yet.”
“Says the man who left me a note straight out of Spy Communication 101.” Relief made my voice sharper than I intended. “What happened to ‘I won’t lose you again’?”
A hint of a smile touched his mouth and disappeared. “I was gone forty minutes.”
“In normal person time, that’s thirty-nine minutes too long when you’re in a strange cabin in the Swiss Alps after escaping psychopathic villains.”
“Not the Alps. Jura Mountains. Different range entirely.” He brushed snow from his jacket.
“Oh, thank you, National Geographic. Vital clarification.”
His eyes warmed. “Your injuries haven’t affected your ability to deliver sarcasm.”
“It’s my coping mechanism. Still operational despite a broken arm.” I nodded toward the bags. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”
“Better.” He pulled a thermos free. “Already made. Still hot.”
I reached with my good hand, almost desperate. “You’re forgiven for abandoning me.”
“I didn’t abandon you.” An edge roughened his voice. He took a breath. “You should be resting.”
I lifted my cast with a wry look. “I was tired of my own company. There’s a ceiling here, and it’s not that interesting.”
“You’ve had a broken bone for less than forty-eight hours.” One brow rose. “Your endurance for boredom needs work.”
“Says the hunter who can probably sit motionless for days waiting for a target.” The words slipped out before I remembered the weight of them—the history he was still reclaiming.
Instead of shutting down, his mouth curved. “Twenty-six hours is my record. Zagreb, 2018. Not my finest moment.”
“Twenty-six hours without moving?” I stared as he helped me sit again. “Did you wear adult diapers?”
He actually laughed, brief and rusty, like the sound surprised him. “Some things are kept secret. Forever.”
A small, ridiculous swell of satisfaction rose in my chest. Getting him to laugh felt like a win we both needed.
He moved to the kitchenette and began unpacking. “I got supplies. Enough to last until we figure out the next move.”
He set out eggs, bread, butter, jam, cheese, fruit, a coil of local cured meat, and a handful of basic medical items.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” I said, then amended at his look, “Okay, everything hurts, but I’m not dying.”
He took out a small bottle. “These will help. Not as strong as the hospital’s, but they won’t fog your thinking.”
I swallowed two tablets with coffee. The burn felt perfect.
“Coffee on an empty stomach isn’t ideal with those pills.” Wolfe slid the mug from my hand and set it on the counter. “Let me make you something first.”
I leaned on the counter, watching him rummage through bags. “Look at you. Domestic.”
“I can handle scrambled eggs.” He cracked shells into a bowl.
Watching him work hit me sideways. Wolfe Lennox, lethal operative, trained killer, whisking eggs while winter light traced the edges of his profile. The same hands that had ended lives now sliced bread with quiet efficiency.
“Who taught you?” I asked. “Family? A girlfriend? A culinary school dusted in gunpowder between contracts?”
He paused with the spatula over the pan. “I don’t know.”
Three words. They landed like a stone.
“I make a mean omelet though,” he added, his tone deliberately lighter.
“Mean as in angry or mean as in good?” I asked. “Because angry eggs sound unappetizing.”
“Both.” He flipped the omelet with a quick flick. “Depends who I’m cooking for.”
“And which am I getting?”
He glanced over a shoulder, something warmer sparking in his eyes. “You’ll find out.”
Five minutes later, he set a plate in front of me—a perfectly folded omelet alongside buttered toast. Simple. Inviting.
“This looks suspiciously competent.” I tasted. Fluffy eggs, perfectly seasoned. “Okay, I’m impressed. The deadly agent makes an excellent breakfast.”
“Excellent?” His brow lifted as he sat across from me.
“Fine. Outstanding. Top-tier. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
I took another bite and studied him. The bruises on his face had faded to yellow-green. Exhaustion still shadowed his eyes. How much sleep he had since we ran?
“So,” I said, “I have questions.”
“I figured.”
“What about Mattie and Damon?” I set my fork down. “Are they safe?”
“They’re fine.” He poured more coffee. “SENTINEL has them close and covered.”
Something in me unclenched. “Thank God. I was worried Dresner might go after them.”
“Mattie’s as safe as she can be with Damon hovering like a vulture.” The corner of his mouth tugged. “I stepped within twenty feet and the man practically snarled.”
I coughed on a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“He practically radiates touch-her-and-die. When I asked her to check my shoulder wound, I thought he’d do the exam himself to keep her hands off me.”
I pictured it and grinned. “I suspected there was something. The way he watches her when he thinks no one’s looking.” I leaned forward and winced. “Did you see anything else? Any actual moves?”
“Nothing explicit.” He topped off my cup without asking. “He positions himself between her and anything he doesn’t like. Including me.”
“So, a slow burn that never ends.” I curled my fingers around the warm mug. “When this is over, I’m going to pester Mattie for details. I need to watch this soap opera unfold.”
“Soap opera?”
“Two highly competent professionals dancing around obvious attraction while sharing danger?” I grinned. “That’s a romance novel waiting to happen.”
He gathered our empty plates and carried them to the sink.
“It’s the best kind of distraction,” I said, watching him rinse. “And Mattie has excellent taste. Damon’s quite the specimen—broody and built.”
The plate clattered against the sink. His shoulders went rigid. He scrubbed a little too hard.
“Something wrong with the dishes?” I asked.
“No.” The word came clipped.
“Then why are you trying to scrub a hole through that plate?”
He shut off the water harder than necessary. “I’m not.”
“You look like you want to murder that poor piece of stoneware.” I tilted my head. “Wait. Are you… jealous?”
“Of Damon?” He scoffed without looking at me. “Why would I be jealous of him?”
“Maybe because I just called him a specimen?”
“You can admire whoever you want.” He dried his hands. “None of my business.”
A smile tugged at my mouth, completely out of place and impossible to stop. “Green doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not jealous.” He finally turned to face me. “I just think your medical judgment might be compromised if you’re distracted by Seok’s… physique.”
I laughed outright. “My medical judgment? That’s your concern?”
“Your professionalism,” he said, though his eyes told a different story.
“Right.” I got to my feet carefully and made my way around the table. “Just so we’re clear, while Damon is objectively attractive, my type these days is painfully specific.”
“And what’s that?” His voice dropped.
“Complicated men with gaps in their memory and a protective streak a mile wide.” I stopped in front of him. “Sound familiar?”
His shoulders loosened a fraction. “Possibly.”
“And I’ve seen you without a shirt.” I kept my tone solemn. “There’s no contest.”
A hint of a smile returned. “Is that so, Dr. Crawford?”
“Professional assessment. If there’s lingering worry, I’m happy to conduct further testing. For science.”
He laughed, warm and unguarded, and it did more for me than the fire. “For science.”
I turned back to the chair and lowered myself carefully. Everything hurt—ribs, arm, bruises arguing for dominance.
“You need to rest.” He started toward me.